


131 Years

by itsalwaysyou_jw



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes Style, Canon Era, Domestic Fluff, Ficlet, Fluff, Implied Relationships, M/M, One Shot, Short & Sweet, Short One Shot, Soulmates, Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-22
Updated: 2018-11-22
Packaged: 2019-08-27 10:14:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16700551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsalwaysyou_jw/pseuds/itsalwaysyou_jw
Summary: A short ficlet I drummed up for the 131st anniversary of the publication of A Study In Scarlet.*****“Fate is a fool's hope of ridding oneself of control. It is the illusion of deflecting responsibility for action. It does not exist. How, then, can we explain the fashion in which we met and our subsequent bond?”“I can’t say,” Watson answered, tone light with curiosity.“Chance, my dear Watson!” his hands flew up, his smile remaining kind.The explanation felt inadequate to his ears. The idea that they were linked by chance was, inexplicably, disappointing. “Your genius mind is unfaltering in its logic,” he offered.“And your romantic heart wishes a relationship such as ours would have been inescapable.”





	131 Years

Gentle rolls of steam rose from the cup in Watson’s hand to curl around itself in shapeless billows. His eccentric friend sat nearly motionless on his worn chair, indented with age. Only his fingers moved, their tips brushing together passively as his mind wandered somewhere his friend couldn’t follow.

“Holmes,” he said softly. There were times Holmes’ mind would wander from boredom and his insertion would warrant a smile, an eagerness to do something besides getting lost in his own thoughts. Other times, Holmes would find himself so deep in his mind, his friend’s interruptions would merely roll around the ears of the genius and a silence between them would continue.

It seemed to Watson that their eleven-year friendship was really six score older.

Holmes’ eyes slid into focus, his lips adjusting in a minute motion toward what he recognized as a pleasant interest. “Yes, Watson?”

“You would agree, I’m sure, that our kinship is a product of fate and the existence of your detective work?”

It was a surprise to find Holmes consider the question in a serious manner. He had meant the inquiry as a rhetorical one. His real question slipped away with Holmes' serious consideration. “Ah,” he said after some time. “I think not, my friend.”

“You think not? And on what grounds do you disagree?”

“On the grounds of fate, of course,” supplied Holmes with a cheer indicative of an impending explanation.

“Go on, then,” Watson said, his benign smile too familiar with Holmes' brilliant reasoning.

His hands steepled under his chin, his familiar cool eyes scanning easily over his companion before saying, “Fate is a fool's hope of ridding oneself of control. It is the illusion of deflecting responsibility for action. It does not exist. How, then, can we explain the fashion in which we met and our subsequent bond?”

“I can’t say,” Watson answered, tone light with curiosity.

“Chance, my dear Watson!” his hands flew up, his smile remaining kind.

The explanation felt inadequate to his ears. The idea that they were linked by chance was, inexplicably, disappointing. “Your genius mind is unfaltering in its logic,” he offered.

“And your romantic heart wishes a relationship such as ours would have been inescapable.”

The steam was diminishing, the tea in his hand growing colder with their conversation. He took a long sip of the beverage, relishing the warmth it filled his stomach with and desiring the same impact on his heart.

The light waned outside their window as they sat there and Watson observed his friend’s eyes glaze over once more as he escaped into his mind. He couldn’t say how much time had passed before Holmes spoke once more, resulting in a jerk of his hand that would have caused a mess of tea if the cup hadn’t nearly been empty.

“I believe I’ve reached a conclusion that will please you, Watson.”

The words were so sudden, his mind raked for exactly the last words the two had exchanged. He never knew where Holmes went in his mind when he dozed away from reality, but he suspected he knew this time.

“Then, by all means, share your conclusion.”

“I maintain that our meeting was chance and nothing more,” started Holmes, and Watson fought against a scowl. “But I do believe a mind like mine would have found a heart like yours one way or another.”

The words took their time sinking in, his mind working over what his friend was meaning. “I beg you, explain your process of reasoning.”

“Happily!” he proclaimed, leaning forward in his seat to examine Watson through narrow but blazing eyes. “Let us say I were not a detective but, say, a florist and if you were not an army doctor but, say, a professor. All else remaining constant, my 'genius mind' as you so generously called it would seek and find your romantic heart.”

Watson beamed with the image in his mind. “And if it were a six score years from now?”

“My dear Watson,” he said again, slowly and with a rare tenderness in his voice. “The brain will always need its heart, the heart will always need its brain, and the two cannot exist without the other.”

Taking a drink of his now-cold tea, he hoped the flush of colour in his cheeks was hidden from the dim light. The brain and the heart. Always bound to find one another, sharing a bond in any potential reality.

“I quite like the sound of that,” he said quietly into their shared space, the two falling back into a comfortable silence.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy 131 years of Sherlock Holmes stories, everyone!  
> These two _are_ total soulmates and Sherlock Holmes knows it even if he won't actually call it "fate."
> 
> Find me on Tumblr, if you fancy it:  
> itsalwaysyou-jw.tumblr.com
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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